Learning to Love Ireland (17 page)

When we stopped for a coke at the village shop before starting the long journey back, we were told that the houses were about to be taken over by NAMA, Ireland's ‘bad bank', the asset management agency set up to acquire loans linked to land and development from other banks in return for government bonds. It was difficult to imagine what NAMA might do with these sad remnants.

Then – amazingly – an estate agent in Courtown found us ‘the perfect place' eight kilometres from Gorey. Originally a ‘holiday home' during the affluent Celtic Tiger years, it had become a millstone that its owner needed to sell. There were four bedrooms, two bathrooms, plenty of built-in cupboards, a well-fitted kitchen and a large garden. Glyn emailed me back immediately, saying that it looked like a gingerbread house with its two cute little dormer windows and black slate roof. She liked the grey pebble-dashed walls and the wide bay window in the lounge downstairs. Sean thought the electric gate was an excellent security feature. Brian said it didn't matter that some of the rooms were bright blue and others a lurid yellow – even the ceilings. They didn't have to stay like that. He suggested we go for cream and light green. My brother, Carl, said he was looking forward to helping with the garden.

We moved in just before Christmas.

And now...

Finally...

Contentment...

We'll sink our roots into this Irish soil and grow once more.

It's a sunny day and there's no wind. The early morning haze has lifted and the sea is a glorious blue. Sighing gently, tiny waves spill their foam onto the beach. A beautiful child with curly brown hair and a strong, sturdy frame crouches at the water's edge. It's Bailey, our granddaughter. She's three years old now – it's her first visit since Sean and Audra emigrated. She loves the way the sand and pebbles pull at her feet each time the water recedes. She reminds us of Brian. When he was four years old, he used to squat for hours like that examining ants.

Hundreds of flat oyster shells have washed up on the beach during the night. Larry, Audra and Sean spin these Frisbees across the water, and Bailey turns to count the number of jumps before they sink back into the sea. She's fascinated by the treasure that surrounds her. We're collecting special stones and pebbles – we're going to make a little rockery in the garden near the hydrangeas.

‘Look, Granny, Daddy says this one's remaaark-able.'

It's a small grey boomerang. We put it in our box alongside the pretty mauve pebble and the stone with the markings of Glyn's tortoise-shell cat.

Moments later, she's back. She says this one's a surprise. She's clutching it tightly in her little fist. Her eyes are sparkling.

‘It's a Valentine's stone, Granny,' she says. ‘It's for Granddad, not for our rockery.'

She uncurls her fingers. On the whitish-grey stone there are several untidy black splashes dropped carelessly by some marine paintbrush deep down in the Irish Sea. Then she turns it over.

On the other side there's a perfect brown heart outlined in black...

A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am deeply grateful to so many people for their invaluable help and support: to Siobhan Roseingrave, Lorraine Cullen, Maureen O'Callaghan, Maureen Higgins and Pat Higgins for reading my manuscript, giving me valuable feedback and assistance and for encouraging me to start a book club here in Gorey; to John Wyse Jackson of Zozimus Books for his encouragement and help; to Mike Dicey for designing the cover; to Hector McDonnell for the delightful illustration of an elderly couple arriving at Dublin airport and to my wonderful sister, Glyn Hunter, for proof-reading
Learning to Love Ireland
and for all the love and support she gave me while I grappled with homesickness.

Finally, I will always be grateful to my husband, Larry, who remained strong while I struggled to come to terms with our new lifestyle.